Blood List(22)

Gene opened his mouth to speak, but Marty never gave him a chance. He lunged, grabbed the fat little puke by the chin, and hefted him to his feet. The CIA-man's pale face flushed with anger, and he blustered in protest. Marty slammed him against the wall one-handed, adrenaline cooperating with corded muscle in one fluid motion.

He leaned to within inches of MacGowan's stinking little freckled face and spat out in barely-controlled rage, "You realize we have a fucking serial killer on our hands? You realize this guy's killed at least two dozen people over the past ten years?"

Pointing at Carl's wounded arm with his free hand, he seethed through clenched teeth, "You realize he crippled my fucking partner, you fat fuck? If you think you're getting your man back without some kind of cooperation—"

Gene laid a hand on his brother's arm. Marty's eyes flashed in anger. "Let him go, bro."

Marty shook with rage, ready to pull MacGowan’s head off with his bare hands. After a long moment, he dropped him with a shove into the wall. The recoil propelled Marty backward and into the table. With a sneer he spat, "Okay, then, CIA-man, what the fuck is the problem? You going to tell us to just walk away from this?"

To Marty's surprise, Ernest MacGowan calmly straightened his clothes, even though his hands were shaking. "That's exactly what I'm telling you to do. This man isn't a common criminal. He isn't even an uncommon criminal." He sat down, picked up a powdered doughnut, and added, "In fact, you might not be able to call him a criminal at all." He took a small bite, white powder coating his double chin.

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and Doug blurted, "What does that mean, Agent MacGowan?" Doug's face was blotchy from the effort of remaining civil under the circumstances. Marty was right there with him. "I may be just a dense G-man, but how is a serial killer not a criminal, exactly?"

MacGowan sucked powdered sugar from his fingers and looked up at the ceiling while he formulated his reply. "What I'm about to tell you can't leave this room." He looked at Gene, eyebrows raised in question. Gene looked at Jerri, Marty, Doug, and finally at Carl. Carl gave a quick nod. Gene looked back at the CIA agent.

"Okay, shoot."

"Over the past ten years, the CIA has employed Paul Renner as a part-time employee. He's useful when certain elements need to be removed in a permanent manner."

Gene snorted. "You mean the CIA paid him to kill people."

MacGowan idly scratched his forehead. "Who do you think we use, Boy Scouts?" Gene and Jerri shared a knowing look. Carl clenched his fists.

Marty interrupted, shaking his head in anger. "Now wait just one goddamn fucking minute here. You're telling me that the guy we've been chasing for the past three years, this motherfucker who crippled my fucking partner is a motherfucking CIA Agent?" A gentle hand on his arm—Jerri's—calmed him down just a little. He shook his head in disbelief and added, "No fucking way." He sat down, deflated.

For the first time, MacGowan looked uncomfortable. "Not exactly. He's more of an…entrepreneur. A, shall we say, contractor. Part-time." Marty wanted nothing more than to wring the neck holding up his flabby head.

Gene fingered the file in front of him. "What reason would the CIA have to kill Jenny Sykes? Eugenia Klammen? Darrell Eaton? What reason would they have to kill half of these people? They're nobodies. There's no correlation between any of them."

MacGowan shrugged, then jerked his hands up defensively when Marty lunged toward him. "Wait!" Marty stopped short, inches from crippling the man with his bare hands. "I don't mean that I won't say. That's not it. Several of these people weren't CIA targets."

"So he's a professional and a hobbyist?" Carl asked.

"No," MacGowan said. "I don't think so. I think he does a lot of freelance work."

Carl looked at the victim file. "That explains why we couldn't figure out the M.O. or how he chooses his victims. Or why his psyche profile didn't make any sense."

Marty scowled. "If he's not a serial killer, why does he taunt us?"

"We don't know," MacGowan said. "I don't know what this current killing spree is about. We haven't even tried to contact him since last October."

"How do we contact him?" Gene asked.

MacGowan shook his head. "'We' don't, Special Agent Palomini. I do. If we have a job, I have Brian call a number. It gets forwarded through an online messaging service. A few days or weeks later, we get a cell phone through the United States Post Office. We get a text message within forty-eight hours that tells us where to send a name and address. It's always some kind of Internet relay, totally untraceable. You cannot find this man."